The Epic of Sedgwick
by Sir Punchula
Summary: As the Skyrim Civil War escalates, the inhabitants of Cyrodiil live in relative peace, their lives safe even from local bandits. When a trader from Kvatch tries to strike it rich by carrying cargo through the last open pass into the war-torn province, he finds himself thrown into the rocky path of destiny. A pseudo-novelization of Skyrim. Rated M for violence and coarse language.
1. Chapter 1 - Bound

**A/N: This Fic was inspired by Sheason's Story, a wonderfully massive novelization of Fallout: New Vegas by Sheason.**

**Disclaimer: The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim and its characters are owned by Bethesda.**

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><p>It was the sixteenth of Last Seed, and I was going to be rich.<p>

A cold breeze chilled my bones as I led the pack horse along the only road to Skyrim that wasn't already buried under several tons of snow. The Pale Pass was thick with highwaymen, especially at this time of year, but thanks to the Understanding, such a deterrent was mitigated to merely an unfortunate crust on the roads of commerce. On either side of me was a guard in dented armor; I had never bothered to ask their names, and they had never bothered to offer them. In fact, they had never said anything aside from "Three hundred thirty," which was slightly more than the average rate for an escort across the border. I hadn't bothered to haggle; it was more than fair, considering that most traders hadn't bothered to take the land routes to Skyrim in over a month. The heartland of Skyrim was by now crying out for goods from Cyrodiil, and I expected to be the only trader supplying those goods – at a reasonable markup due to demand, of course.

"Stand and deliver," called out a muffled voice that sounded as bored as I felt.

I stopped to look up at a man wearing more fur than a menagerie. Thick material clothed him from head to toe, and only a small slit in the top suggested that this highwayman was more than a mountain of hide. His hand was held out to me, gloved palm open. I exhaled heavily from my nostrils and pulled a money pouch from my belt. Though I knew that it contained exactly two hundred septims, I nevertheless made a show of counting them, knowing that the highwayman would do the same. I wordlessly stepped forward and proffered the pouch; he just as silently stepped forward and took it. I caught sight of rough skin and serpentine eyes; my robber was an Argonian, which explained the heavy clothes; he was likely not yet used to being outside the damp warmth of Black Marsh. We both nodded, and I and my retinue continued up the path. I willed myself not to look to either side; I knew that archers were hidden among the stones, ready to ensure that any sudden and startling movements I made would be hazardous to my health.

For quite some time, travelers and highwaymen in the province of Cyrodiil had had an Understanding; travelers would not unduly alert the authorities to the presence of the highwaymen, and the highwaymen, in turn, would not steal more than an amount of money that was mutually acceptable. The result was uniquely arranged form of robbery that, amazingly, benefited everyone. Traders were free (or, at the very least, reasonably paid-up) to carry their goods between cities without having to overspend on irritating little trifles such as security; at the same time, highwaymen were protective enough of their sources of income that they tended to come down hard on any bandits that might be so unwise as to endanger the Understanding or the money that it guaranteed. As a result, Cyrodiil was the economic power of the Empire.

By now, I had been trudging onward for quite some time; the shadows cast by the towering mountains were beginning to deepen when I heard another voice.

"Hey, you."

I looked up. The man in front of me was an unmistakable Nord; thick blond hair fell over his shoulders like straw, and his pale face looked as if it had been carved from the surrounding mountains. He was wearing a leather vest thick with studs and buckles, and his bare arms were like the trunks of trees.

I sighed. The man standing in the middle of path- no, walking down the middle of the path toward me wore an imperious smirk. Here was a highwayman that enjoyed his work. I could almost hear the stretching of bows as his unseen confederates prepared for any potential unpleasantness that might arise, should I or my bodyguards suddenly try to do something suicidal, like not giving him any money.

I slowly and deliberately reached for another money pouch. "Will two hundred be fine?" I asked. I heard a soft twang and a quiet bubbling noise behind me. I turned around to see both of my bodyguards on the ground, their blood already staining the dry grass. I didn't even get a chance to shout before something heavy hit me on the back of the head. I fell forward, hit the ground roughly… and kept falling, falling into blackness.

The last words I heard were, "Welcome to Skyrim,"

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><p>I awoke in darkness and confusion. My mouth felt as if someone had stuffed wool into it, and the back of my head ached terribly. I unsteadily got to my feet, my vision slowly clearing. It was night, I thought; the sky was dark, and I couldn't see very far ahead. I also couldn't see my horse, its cargo or any of my possessions. Even the thin coat I had worn to keep out the worst of the chill was gone; the bandits had left me with my undershirt and trousers. I managed to find the presence of mind to swear.<p>

I felt the back of my head and immediately wished that I hadn't. I felt a vague texture of damp and stickiness before pain arced through my skull like a hot poker. My ears roared, and I nearly fell over again. Then I became aware that my ears weren't the only thing roaring.

The thin wood where barren mountains met the forest was alive with shouting. One voice rose above the others.

"Victory or Sovngarde!"

Even in my concussed state of mind, I understood that the last place that I wanted to be a a battle. I picked a direction and stumbled blindly through the sparse woodland. At first, I thought that more bandits had found a caravan or something, but it was far too loud and going on for far too long. I don't remember how long I fled, or even if I even covered any ground, before another cry, much closer this time, cut through the thicket.

"For the Emperor!"

This time I managed to scream a little before something heavy struck me on the back of the head and I once again tumbled into the black depths of unconsciousness.

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><p>Unfocused thoughts swam through my head. Each time one came close, I grasped at it feebly; each time, the thought wriggled out of my grasp and fled into the darkness. Voices came from a great distance away, and were distorted as though I was caught in a great pool of water.<p>

I awoke to the sensation of being jostled. A cart. I was in a cart, I thought, though I couldn't fathom why. There was a bump, and pain cleaved through the back of my head, unleashing my thoughts with painful clarity. I opened my eyes, but carefully, in the event that someone might decide to knock me out again. Someone in front of me was driving a cart; I reluctantly opened my eyes further, and saw that he was wearing armor. I strained my memory enough to know that it was the armor of the Empire. I shifted in a vain attempt to ease my sore muscles, and came to an unsettling realization: my hands were bound.

"Hey."

I wasn't alone on the cart. Across from me, someone was trying to get my attention. "You're finally awake," he said. He was a blond Nord, like – and here my skull stung in painful recollection – like the bandit that knocked me out the first time. I noticed that he was still trying to talk to me. "You were trying to cross the border, right?"

My head hurt too much for me to process words. I nodded. "Walked right into that Imperial Ambush." It was then that I noticed his armor. He was wearing a battered leather jerkin over an old shirt of chainmail. He had a tattered blue sash wrapped tightly around his armor. He jerked his head to the side, indicating the other people on the cart. "Same as us. And that thief over there." He said the word thief in the same tone of voice a high-society woman might use with the word skeever.

"Damn you Stormcloaks," said a voice with an equal measure of venom. I gingerly turned my head to look at the two others. The speaker looked how I felt; his eyes were sunken into his head, his head was bruised and bloodied, and he was wearing a filthy tunic that was little more than rags. I realized with dull horror that I was wearing the same thing. "Skyrim was fine until you came along. The Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell." The would-be horse thief was glaring daggers at the first Nord when he suddenly turned his gaze to me. "You there! You and me, we shouldn't be here! It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants." His voice had a hint of plaintiveness, and it struck me that he was raising it for the sake of the cart's driver.

The Stormcloak shook his head. Was that pity or disgust on his face? "We're all brothers in binds now," he said softly. "Thief."

"Shut up back there," the driver of the cart said without turning his head. I felt someone next to me stiffen, and I realized that I had been leaning against him. I did my best to straighten up and winced when the movement sent another wave of pain through my head.

I looked at the man next to me. The first thing I noticed was the cloth shoved into his mouth; unlike the rest of us, he had been gagged. The second thing was a sense of danger. The man was even more battered than the other two prisoners, but the look in his eyes suggested that his injuries were only making him angry. He wore a fine cloak of what I was certain was bear fur; under it, his muscles strained against his binds. He had the air of an unsprung trap.

The thief had noticed him, too. "What's up with him?" he asked.

"Watch your tongue!" the first 'Stormcloak' barked with an intensity that he hadn't shown before. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!"

Battered though my brain was, I made the connection between Ulfric Stormcloak and The Stormcloaks.

"Ulfric," the thief said, "The-"here he used a word that I didn't understand- "of Windhelm? You're the leader of the Rebellion!

Oh, _shit._

"But if they captured you…" the thief breathed, evidently coming the same thing as me. He blanched. "Oh, gods. Where are they taking us?"

The man called Ulfric only stared, but the Stormcloak soldier shook his head. "I don't know where we're going," he said softly, "but Sovngarde awaits."

Sovngarde?

The thief seemed even paler. "No. No, this can't be happening," he said. "This isn't happening!"

I remembered that battle cry in the night. Victory or Sovngarde. Death or Glory. I made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a squeak on the auditory spectrum of Noises To Make When One Is Afraid.

The Stormcloak rebel stared at me for some time. Then, he seemed to soften. "Hey," he said to the thief. "What village are you from, Horse Thief?"

"Why do you care?" the thief shot back.

The rebel seemed to sigh. "A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."

There was a terrified silence. The cart rattled along the path. Dawn came.

"R-Rorikstead. I'm from Rorikstead." The pale little man looked as if the world was ending. As far as he was concerned – as far as all of us were concerned – it was.

Once again, we were all silent. The rebel looked pensive; the thief, scared out of his wits. Though the look on Ulfric Stormcloak's face could have cut through steel, he didn't bother to try to speak through his gag. I wanted to say something, anything. I wanted to tell the cart's driver that I was just a trader from Kvatch, that it was all a mistake, that I shouldn't be here. I opened my mouth, but could only croak. The rebel just looked at me with an expression of what might have been sympathy.

As we slowly weaved our way out of the mountains, the pain in my head began to subside to a dull throbbing. Eventually, I could see a town in the distance, though it could have just as easily have been called a fort; it looked heavily fortified. As we rolled into the town, one of the Imperial soldiers called out. "General Tullius, sir! The Headsman is waiting!"

Oh, _shit._

"Good," replied a voice that sounded as if its owner had been sucking on lemons all of his life. "Let's get this over with."

"Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh," the thief mumbled miserably. "Divines, please help me!"

I craned my neck and squinted into the brightening sunlight to get a look at the general. He was a dark-skinned Imperial with silver hair; even from our distance, I could see that his armor was trimmed with gold. With him were a couple of tall individuals in black robes.

The rebel noticed my gaze and sneered. "Look at him. General Tullius, the military governor," he spat. "And it looks like the Thalmor are with him." He shook his head and looked away, disgust evident on his face. "Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this."

Ulfric Stormcloak only stared at the general. I wasn't sure, but he didn't seem to have blinked in the entire journey. I became aware that Tullius had turned to glare back at us. I stared, transfixed, until our wagon turned a corner.

"This is Helgen," the rebel told me; he didn't seem to want to speak to the thief anymore. I turned to look at him; his expression was conflicted between defiance and sorrow. "I used to be sweet on a girl from here." He looked away, into the past. "Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with Juniper Berries mixed in." He sniffed. "Funny," he said with a sad smile, "when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe.

The townspeople were muttering amongst themselves, shooing their children inside; they could smell the impending bloodshed. I could smell it, too; the air was thick with trepidation, and much of it was mine.

All too soon, the wagon began to roll to a halt. "Why are we stopping?" asked the thief.

The rebel scoffed. "Why do you think?" He jerked his head toward the town square. I felt sick. A chopping block sat there. "End of the line."

I felt my breath quicken. I had thought that we were being shuttled to some gods forsaken prison to rot until someone decided to see if I was actually supposed to be there, but this…this was a summary execution. No investigation, no trial, not so much as a hearing. They caught us, and now they were going to kill us. It was as simple as that.

I saw the rebel flash a grim smile. "Let's go," he said, far too much enthusiasm in his voice. "Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us."

The thief somehow contrived to panic even further. "No, wait!" he cried out as we began to exit the wagon. "We're not rebels!"

"Face your death with some courage, thief," the rebel retorted.

"You've got to tell them," the thief insisted. "We weren't with you! This is a mistake!"

Every fiber of my body wished for me to do the same, to protest, but my tongue was caught in my mouth.

An Imperial woman in Officer's armor cast a stony glare on us. She ignored the thief and said, "Step toward the block when we call your name."

"Empire loves their damn lists," the rebel snorted.

A young Nord, about as young as the rebel next to me, stepped forward. His long, red hair, unimpeded by a helmet, tumbled down the back of his head to his shoulders. He held a scroll and a quill pen. "Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm," he recited, and again I caught that word – Jarl – that I didn't understand.

As the leader of the rebellion stepped forward, the rebel next to me said, "It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric."

The soldier paused for only a moment before continuing, "Ralof of Riverwood." The rebel next to me straightened and wordlessly walked forward to join Ulfric.

The young soldier's gaze lingered on Ralof's face, and he paused for a moment longer than he had for Ulfric. "Lokir of Rorikstead," he said, tearing his gaze away and back to the list.

Horse Thief took a step forward, but shouted, "No! I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!"

…And then he took off, sprinting down the road. "Halt!" roared the officer. After no time at all, she called out, "Archers!"

"You're not going to kill me!" Horse Thief shouted, an instant before they killed them.

I looked on in horror as arrows seemed to sprout from the thief's body. He stumbled and fell hard, writhing in a rapidly expanding pool of blood. I didn't have enough time to feel sick before the officer turned to us and shouted, "Anyone else feel like running?" I noticed that she was staring at me as she said it, as if daring me to protest my innocence.

The young Imperial soldier, who looked almost as pale as I felt, followed the officer's gaze to me. "Wait," he said. "You there. Step Forward."

Around that time, my mind simply stopped working. My knees shook, but my legs walked me forward a couple of steps so that the soldier could see me clearly.

The soldier stared at me for what seemed like an eternity until he asked, "Who are you?"

Completely unaided by my brain, my mouth said, "Sedgwick. O-of Kvatch."

The soldier penned in my name. "You're a long way from the Imperial City. What are you doing here?" I didn't get a chance to answer before he said, "Captain, he's not on the list. What should I do?"

Hope welled up within me. Yes, I wasn't on the list! I didn't belong here, I was just in the wrong place in the wrong time, they could just let me go or even see about doing something about those bandits at the pass…

In my head, I was taking my re-acquired wares to the Skyrim heartland when the captain said, "Forget the list." What? "He goes to the block, too."

I could feel my insides breaking, whimpering in the face of the cruelty of the world. "By your orders, Captain," the soldier said before turning back to me. "I'm sorry. We'll make sure your remains are returned Cyrodiil." He paused, as if weighing his words. "Follow the Captain, prisoner."

"My remains," I echoed in a croak.

It was the seventeenth of Last Seed, and I was going to die.

When I followed the captain, I stopped in front another group of prisoners that was in front of me. They were all wearing the same armor as Ralof. Imperial soldiers were present as well, and they stood stiffly to attention near every possible route of escape. Next to the block stood a woman in faded yellow robes and a man in…

I shivered. The headsman was wearing a leather vest and fur chaps, both of which were bulging with the fat born of soft living and hard eating. On his arms, however, his muscles positively bulged, and for good reason; in one hand he held a wicked looking axe. There was no question as to its purpose.

In the center, the general was speaking to the leader of the rebellion. "Ulfric Stormcloak," said General Tullius, "some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn't use the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne."

For the first time, I heard Ulfric grunt through his gag. He was seething, turning a glare of pure hatred on the general, who was returning the favor measure for measure.

Tullius raised his voice. "You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace."

As if on cue, the wind picked up, roaring in such a way that the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Evidently, the young soldier with the list noticed it, too. "What was that?" he asked.

"Tullius grunted. "It's nothing. Carry on."

The captain straightened in a manner that seemed far too eager, considering the circumstances. "Yes, General Tullius," she all but sang.

The captain looked sideways at the robed woman. "Give them their last rites," she ordered, and it was only then that I recognized the robed woman as a priestess of Arkay. Evidently, the clergy of Skyrim wore much humbler vestments than that of Cyrodiil.

In a precisely practiced drone, the priestess began her prayer and continued for all of five seconds before a Stormcloak rebel stepped forward. "For the love of Talos," he snarled, "Shut up and let's get this over with."

The priestess looked affronted, but managed to say, "As you wish."

The rebel stood in front of the block. "I haven't got all morning," he said as the captain shoved him on his knees. "As the headman stepped forward, the rebel sneered and said, "My ancestors are smiling on me, Imperials. Can you say the same?"

And just like that, his head was separated from his shoulders. Another gust of wind blew in from the east, and my knees almost buckled.

"Next, the renegade from Cyrodiil!" The captain barked.

"Renegade!?" I burst out, my terror momentarily giving way to indignation. Again, the wind roared.

_It wasn't the wind_, a small part of me thought. _The wind doesn't make me want to crawl into a hole and hide._

"There it is again," said the young soldier. "What is that?"

The captain didn't answer. "I said, next prisoner!"

"D-don't I get my last rites?" I asked, desperate to cling to life for even a few seconds more.

"To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy," said the young soldier. He looked uneasy.

I gingerly stepped forward, but as soon as I got close enough, the Captain shoved me onto my knees in front of the block. I felt a rough hand push me onto the block. The headsman raised his axe.

And then the world went mad.


	2. Chapter 2 - Unbound

I suppose that I could say that as the headsman raised his axe, I thought of all the lingering little regrets that I had picked up along my life, or possibly of those memories that were enjoyable, or perhaps even of what afterlife I might find. As it happened, the wordless whirlwind that ran through my mind could best be described as:

_Oh, shit, I'm really going to die._

The noise that I had thought was wind roared again, this time so loudly that my ears rang. I heard someone shout, "What in Oblivion is that!?"

A _thing_ alighted on the top of the tower in front of me. I saw only wings and spikes before the beast opened its maw and unleashed a sound like a thunderclap. A wave of pure energy knocked me back, off of the block, and onto the bloodstained ground.

People all around me shouted, their voices overlapping one another to create a wall of noise. From my recumbent position on the ground, I could see soldiers scattering, running, drawing their weapons, forgetting about we prisoners. Someone tripped over me, and I rolled onto my back. The clear sky had somehow become a mass of sinister clouds that writhed as if the heavens themselves were in agony.

I stared. The _thing_, a huge mass of scale and muscle, was flying now. It was distinctly reptilian, with black, gnarled spikes protruding from nearly every point on its body and giving it the appearance of a murderous, thorny lizard. It lazily beat the air with massive, leathery wings as it opened its maw again, briefly revealing a mouth of wicked-looking teeth before a gout of fire burst from its throat and ignited a thatched roof. Something about it was _wrong_, somehow; my eyes watered just from looking at it.

I was startled out of my reverie by a rough hand that grabbed me by the shoulder and hauled me upright. "Hey, you, get up!" the hand's owner said, and I tore my eyes away from the beast to see Ralof, the Stormcloak rebel that had been on the prison wagon with me. He was still shouting: "Come on! The gods won't give us another chance! This way!" Just as I dumbly started to follow him, I felt a blast of hot air behind me and turned my head just in time to see a huge, flaming chunk of rock crash into the ground where I had just been laying. I decided to pick up my pace.

The two of us fled to a nearby stone tower. Ralof shoved open the door, shouting again for me to follow him inside. As I did so, I heard heavy breathing behind me. As soon as I was in the relative safety of the tower, I turned to see…

"Jarl Ulfric!" Ralof exclaimed, his eyes wild. "What is that? Could the legends be true?"

Ulfric Stormcloak's mouth was twisted into a grim scowl. His long hair was disheveled, and his bearskin cloak was missing. He was hunched over slightly, and I noticed that he had been shot in the shoulder. The leader of the rebellion cast a dark look out the open door. "Legends don't burn down villages," he growled. It was the first time that I heard him speak. He looked from Ralof to me. "We need to move. Now!"

I wasn't having a particularly good record that day insofar as quick thinking was concerned, but something about the commanding nature of voice of the Stormcloak Leader caused my legs to start moving without so much as consulting my brain on the matter. Before I was aware of what I was doing, I was already moving up the stairs, with Ralof right behind me. Suddenly, something burst through the wall in front of me. Without thinking, I stopped, turned… and looked into the nostrils of the beast.

I saw a reptilian face that looked as if it had been carved roughly from obsidian. Two eyes, red like embers, stared back at me. I thought I saw a hint of a smile twitch across the creature's maw just before, in a voice as black as its hide, it calmly made a noise that sounded like both a word and an intake of breath.

_"Yol…"_

Ralof yanked me to the side before the ensuing jet of flame incinerated me. I could feel the unnatural heat of the fire stop just short of burning my skin, and I was sure that the rough tunic I was wearing had been singed. As the creature leapt away from the building to terrorize other people, a terrible rumbling nearly caused me to lose my footing again. The stairway in front of me collapsed, leaving us with no escape.

I heard Ralof again. "See the inn on the other side?" he asked me. I looked in the direction in which he was pointing. Below us, next to the tower, a thatched roof had collapsed in on itself, but was not yet consumed by the inferno that was already licking at most of the town. "Jump through the roof and keep going!"

"What!?" I had time to say before my rescuer unceremoniously shoved me through the hole in the tower. I fell roughly on the upper floor of the inn with a grunt and scrambled unsteadily to my feet. I heard more shouting behind me, but I didn't need any more encouragement; the stench of smoke was overwhelming, and anywhere wooden was not a good place to be. I somehow managed to weave my way past the burning floor, tumble onto the ground floor without injury, and stagger into the open air.

A child was there, standing in the road. The kid couldn't have been older than nine years old. He was staring at a burning building, his face blank. He must have been in shock. My heart dropped into my stomach when I saw the beast circling overhead, just finishing with razing another tower. Soldiers were shouting at the boy, telling to get off the road, to run away, but he just stood there, staring at the inferno that used to be his home.

A voice cut through the multitude. "Haming! You need to get over here. Now!"

The child, hearing his name, turned his head to find the speaker. As I did the same, I found that it was the young soldier that had read from the list of prisoners to be executed. He was kneeling in the dirt, beckoning to the boy.

"That's a boy," the soldier said as the boy started to jog over. "You're doing great."

At that moment, the beast landed heavily on the road, right where the child had been seconds earlier. My breath caught in my throat as I saw the creature turn its massive head to look directly at the boy, which it appeared to watch with some interest.

Another man, not wearing the uniform of the Legion, beckoned to the child. "That's it, son," he said, his voice strained. "Make me proud." I couldn't see his eyes, but I had no doubt that he was staring at the monster in horrified fascination.

Several things happened, almost at once. The creature opened its maw. The soldier leaned forward and grabbed the child in one fluid motion. He was already backpedaling, shouting, "Oh, gods! Get back!" A gout of flame burst from the throat of the beast and superheated the road where the child had just been.

I could have sworn that I heard the beast snort in disgust as it kicked back up into the air.

The soldier appeared to notice me. "Still alive, prisoner?" he said, his expression unreadable. He was still holding on to the boy, who wore an expression of horrified bemusement. The soldier jerked his head in the direction of the road, only just vacated by the beast. "Stay close to me if you want to stay that way." I could only nod. It was the second time in as many minutes that I had seen down the throat of the monster, and part of my brain was insisting that I was dead right now, contrary to the fact that I was still upright and breathing. The soldier turned to the other man that had been there. "Gunnar, take care of the boy. I have to find General Tullius and join the defense."

The man called Gunnar nodded, his face grim. "Gods guide you, Hadvar."

The two of us weaved through the broken and burning buildings of Helgen as quickly and carefully as we could. Several times, we were forced to step over the broken and burned bodies of soldiers and civilians that had already fallen to the monster. Some of those faces that were still intact still wore wide eyes of fear or clenched teeth of determination; others looked like they had spent their final seconds in agony. Many of the corpses were burned beyond recognition, their charred flesh almost indistinguishable from the wood of buildings that served only as kindling for the unstoppable beast's fiery wrath. It was a small mercy that the smell of burning village overpowered the smell of burning humanity.

All the while, the creature lazily circled above the town, igniting buildings and people at its leisure. Arrows soared upward to meet it, but none so much as inconvenienced the monster; those that did not miss or were not blown away by the buffeting of its massive, leathery wings just clattered harmlessly off of its obsidian hide. Before long, only a few archers dared to attack the beast; most, I assumed with a detached sort of horror, had already been burned to cinders.

General Tullius was considerably more ruffled when Hadvar and I found him. His impressive armor now looked as if it had been left in an oven, and his red cape was scorched and tattered. His face looked as if he had stopped sucking on lemons some time ago and was now chewing on charcoal. "Hadvar!" he bellowed as we approached. "Into the keep, soldier, we're leaving!"

Around us, people were fleeing for their lives in all directions. Hadvar looked to me, his jaw set. "It's you and me, prisoner," he said, his expression once again unreadable. "Stay close."

We had nearly made it when I saw a familiar face.

"Ralof, you damned traitor!" Hadvar snarled at the rebel that had just approached the keep from the other side of the small, burning courtyard. "Out of my way!"

Ralof sneered at the Imperial soldier. "We're escaping, Hadvar," he said, his voice laced with venom. "You're not stopping us this time."

For an instant, Hadvar's expression seemed to crumple. The moment passed as quickly as it had appeared. "Fine! I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!" he shouted, his face with rage.

This time, Ralof was the one who, for a fleeting moment, allowed a pained look to cross his face. He ran for one door into the keep, and Hadvar approached the other, on the opposite side of the building. Both of them stopped, each one with their hand on a door handle, and looked at me expectantly.

I could feel the universe pressing itself into me. Either path I chose, if I survived it, would be a small yet irrevocable decision for one side or another in a distant conflict from an alien land. One man would welcome me into a shared struggle to survival, while another would shake his head, cast aside any solidarity we might have had, and think of me as only a potential enemy. I stood for a time that was agonizingly long and far too brief, transfixed.

Then the beast in the sky spoke a strange language in a voice that chilled me to my very soul and a volume that suggested that it was nearby, and that it was getting closer very quickly. I chose a direction and ran.

As I sagged against the closed door, my heart nearly bursting from my chest, Hadvar said, "Looks like we're the only ones who made it."

* * *

><p>Hadvar was panting, his face pale. "Was that really a dragon?" he asked me. "One of the bringers of the End Times?"<p>

I shut my eyes tightly. I was dead. Surely, I was dead. No one brushes with death that many times in that short a period and actually survives. No one sane, at least. "A dragon?" I echoed. My voice was hoarse. "I don't know. I just know that it's a huge godsdamn creature that torched a whole godsdamn town."

Hadvar sighed. "That sounds like a dragon to me," he mumbled. He looked to me again. "We should keep moving. Come here. Let me see if I can get those bindings off." I obliged, holding out my arms. The Imperial soldier made short work of my restraints with a steel knife from his belt. "There you go." He gestured toward the wall. "Take a look around, there should be plenty of gear to choose from. I'm going to see if I can find something for these burns."

I took a look around the barracks. Several beds were placed against each wall, with an adjacent chest for storing equipment. I opened one of the chests. Inside was a pile of leather armor that looked as if someone's dog had been gnawing on it. It was a sight better than the rags I was wearing, so I grabbed the chest piece. It had the insignia of the empire set in the center. Once I was changed, I grabbed the iron sword that was lying on the bed and examined it. It had several small nicks in the blade, but it wasn't in too bad a shape for iron. At least its previous owner had understood that allowing rust to accumulate on a blade was not a life-enhancing decision.

My memory treacherously reminded me of those burning corpses that the dragon had left in its wake. It was likely that the weapon's previous owner was no longer in any state to worry about the quality of his equipment. I silently thanked whatever Divines that might have been paying attention for the smoke that still made it impossible for me to smell anything but embers.

Hadvar nodded to me. "I hope you know how to use that weapon," he said.

I nodded in response. Even in Cyrodiil, only an idiot or a really, really rich man doesn't bother to learn how to fight. "Thanks for helping me," I said. My voice was starting to return to me. "I would have thought that you were all fine with me and the rest of the prisoners being kindling."

Hadvar grunted. "If you're a Stormcloak, you're the worst I've ever seen," he said. "You didn't have anything on you when you were captured with the rest of them. Besides, you weren't on the list, Mister…" he trailed off expectantly.

"Sedgwick,"

"Right. They didn't even bother to identify you before they signed your death warrant." He started down the corridor, and I fell into step. "I understand that needs must, in times of war, but sometimes…" He trailed off and shook his head. "There is always a need for due process. As I see it, we can probably consider this an unofficial pardon."

"Fitting, seeing as how I got an illegal sentence," I said, trying to keep the bitterness from my voice. I don't think I entirely succeeded, because Hadvar said nothing.

We had only been walking for a minute before Hadvar stopped short. There were voices ahead.

"We need to get moving! That dragon is tearing up the whole keep!"

"Just give me a minute. I need to catch my breath."

"Hear that?" Hadvar whispered. "Stormcloaks. Maybe we can reason with them."

I certainly hoped as much. "And if we can't?"

"Then you just make sure it isn't me you're sticking that sword into."

We entered another room. Two Stormcloak rebels stared at us, their faces registering surprise. One was wearing the leather, sash and chainmail that I had come to associate with the Stormcloaks and was also wielding a mace. The other held a war-axe, but only wore prisoner's rags. Both of them quickly got over their mild shock and advanced on us, their faces grim.

"Hold on, now, we only want to—"Hadvar was cut off by a mace that he deflected with his sword. "If you want to die, so be it."

With that, Hadvar and the armored Stormcloak began to fight. The Stormcloak wearing the rough tunic didn't bother to speak before he began to charge at me, his war-axe raised to strike.

Without bothering to consult my brain, my legs swiftly moved me to the side. I could hear the whistling of the air as the axe sliced it, inches from my ear. I swung my sword wildly and caught the rebel on the elbow with the flat end of my blade. He grunted, then swiveled and lashed out with his axe, aiming for my chest. I just barely managed to redirect the strike with my sword and staggered backward. The rebel swung again, just narrowly missing my throat. As he readied his weapon for another strike, his face now just a foot from mine, I blindly thrust my sword forward and stabbed him in the abdomen.

The rebel's eyes widened and he gurgled. He tumbled over backwards, bleeding profusely from the hole in his belly. I stared, horrified. Then, a hand offered a waterskin to me.

It was Hadvar. "All right, there?" he asked. The Stormcloak that he had been fighting was lying in a pool of his own blood, making bubbling noises. I nodded wordlessly and took the waterskin. It was only then when I realized that my hands were shaking.

I drank greedily from the leather pouch. When I had my fill, I gasped, "It hasn't been a good couple of days."

It was an understatement. Hadvar smiled mirthlessly. "Better than the one these two are having," he said, indicating the fallen Stormcloaks. I shivered, once again thinking of the carnage outside.

I took a deep breath, realizing that I had been shaken up more than I had known by the chaotic events that had taken place in the last twenty four hours. I had just nearly died again, this time because I was paralyzed by my own fear. I needed to get it together, or I really wouldn't survive for more than a few minutes.

We continued to traverse the keep in silence. Before we could get very far, the entire building shook, accompanied by a ferocious roar. The corridor in front of us collapsed.

"Damn, that dragon doesn't give up easy," Hadvar said once the rumbling stopped. "This way."

We ducked into what looked like a storage room. Two more Stormcloaks were here, one rifling through the contents of a barrel. They were both armed and armored.

One was saying to the other, "What are you doing? We need to get out of Helgen!" Then he noticed us and drew his weapon. "Imperial scum!"

This time, I was more prepared when the four of us met in battle. I deflected two of my opponent's wild strikes, noting in a small corner of my mind that wasn't focused entirely on survival that he seemed to be relying more on strength and adrenaline than anything else. We traded blows for a few intense seconds before I managed to slice through his thigh muscle, sending him tumbling to the ground in agony. He didn't get up, and appeared to opt instead for cradling his injured limb. Hadvar did a sight better than me, running his opponent through after only a couple of deflected blows.

I looked from Hadvar to our recumbent foes. "You know," I breathed, my mind still foggy from the spike in adrenaline, "I would have thought that enemy soldiers would be…" I searched for the word and settled for, "Better-trained?"

Hadvar scoffed, his weapon still drawn. "These aren't soldiers. Not really," he said. "Just a couple of dumb kids with their grandad's sword and a gut full of misplaced bitterness or patriotism or whatever else inspires someone to fight for a stupid cause." He looked sideways at me. "Don't get me wrong. The Stormcloaks have damned good fighters. They're sons – and daughters - of Skyrim, after all." He spat on the bloodstained ground. "They're the ones that understand that surviving in war is a habit, not a hope. Just like any soldier that lives past their third battle."

I was curious, but didn't ask further. Instead, I picked my way through the room. I managed to find red and green vials, two each, on one of the shelves. I also found a pouch to hold them, which I tied onto my belt.

"Ready?" Hadvar asked after I tucked the potions into the pouch.

I was about to respond when a battle cry echoed from further into the keep. Without a word, we both rushed out of the storeroom and into the keep's prison.


	3. Chapter 3 - Ancient Stones

**A/N: Finally, we approach the end of the Prologue. As happy as I am with following the rails set down by the initial plot, I'll be glad to have a bit more wiggle room as far as pacing is concerned in the coming chapters as more agency is given to the player. While Unbound is a fine quest and all that, it is still (intentionally) a very controlled environment, seeing as how it's the player's introduction to the game.**

**That aside, it's time for a bit of griping. I've always had a problem with Hadvar just after the Unbound quest, after the player leaves the cave for the first time. Someone in Bethesda got it into their head that even though they'd coded and added a whole bunch of flavor text in the walk to Riverwood, not least of which is the introduction to the Guardian Stones ****_and_**** the first dungeon of the main questline, it would be a good idea for him to tell the player to part ways with him before said flavor text. I suppose that's Bethesda Logic for you.**

* * *

><p>The stench of dried blood and vomit assaulted my nostrils as Hadvar and descended into the prison of the keep, as denoted by the cages. Some of the cells were occupied, but none of the occupants were in a state to do much more than decompose.<p>

Two Stormcloaks were presently fighting with two Legionnaires. Hadvar immediately threw himself into the fray and, in one strike, sliced through the neck of one of the rebels. I swung at the legs of the other while his back was turned; his armor stopped my blade, but did not stop him from tumbling to the ground. The legionnaire he had been fighting swiftly took the opportunity to brain him with a mace. I wiped sweat from my brow, still mentally recoiling from the stench of the room, and looked up at the men we had just saved.

The man Hadvar had helped spoke up. "You fellows happened along just in time," he drawled. "These boys seemed a bit upset at how I've been entertaining their comrades."

I stared. The withered old man looked as if he had just been dragged out of a crypt. Pale, wrinkled skin hung from him like curtains, displaying every knobbly joint he owned. His eyes were sunken into his skull, and the black hood that covered his head was stained was clumsily patched. His armor was at least two sizes too large, and it was stained with miscellaneous juices that could just as easily have been leftovers from breakfast as it could have been blood from an enthusiastic bit of…whatever he got up to in here. He may as well have worn a nameplate that read "torturer".

"Don't you even know what's going on?" I asked him. The torturer raised an eyebrow at me.

"A dragon is attacking Helgen!" Hadvar explained.

"A dragon? Please. Don't make up nonsense," the old man said. I wondered if the look of withering contempt on his face was specific to the subject of dragons or if it had simply stuck there out of decades of general malevolence.

Hadvar set his jaw. "Come with us. We need to get out of here."

At that, the torturer sneered. I had to silently admit that the withered old cretin was a natural at sneering. He could have curdled milk with the expression he had on his face right now. "You have no authority over me, boy."

The other Legionnaire slammed his hand on a table, causing everyone to jump. "Forget the old man," he barked. "I'm coming with you."

That seemed to settle the matter. The three of us made our way out of the prison without bothering to visit with the old so-and-so any longer. I had to stop myself from taking a gasp of the relatively fresh basement air when we finally left the sickening odors of state-inflicted agony. As we made our way deeper into the dark underside of the keep, the walls gradually changed from brick and mortar to rough stone. The terrible roars of the dragon above faded into silence, muffled by the increasingly large barrier of rock between us. In its place came the sound of water.

Voices ahead caused us all to slow as we cautiously made our way toward the end of a corridor. "Where are we supposed to go?" someone said, loudly. Several Stormcloak rebels were there to greet us as we emerged into a large room that was as much a cavern as it was a continuation of the Keep's foundations. Upon sight of us, four of them charged, weapons drawn. "Freedom or Sovngarde!" one bellowed.

"Oh, shit!" I shouted as I locked swords with one of them. It wasn't the most inspiring of battle cries, but I like to think that it helped, in some small way. Unfortunately, it didn't make up for muscle mass; the warrior opposite me was much stronger than me, and he had nearly overwhelmed me when Hadvar lunged from the side and impaled my enemy with his sword.

I was about to thank him when I spied another Stormcloak fast approaching, her warhammer raised. Before she had a chance to account for me in addition to Hadvar, I ran forward and swung wildly with my weapon, which, by sheer chance, lodged itself into what felt the rebel's ribcage and caused her to hunch over in pain. Evidently, that wasn't the correct response, as the rebel's movement dislodged some vital blood vessel that I had severed and caused blood to spurt from around my blade. The spray became a torrent when I yanked the sword free, and before long blood was pooling around us and spilling into the rivulet in the center of the cavernous room.

By unspoken agreement, Hadvar and I stayed close together after those two enemies. The Stormcloaks outnumbered us, but they were disorganized in their haste to cut us down. Like Hadvar had said, they were woefully unqualified as soldiers, and their overconfidence in their strength of numbers seemed to make them that much more inefficient.

…Or so I thought until the last Stormcloak locked the hilt of his greatsword with that of my shortsword, wrenched my weapon away, and swept my legs out from under my with a slice that sent agony through one of my legs. I fell onto my side, too winded to cry out in pain. I took a shuddering gasp, but the air was again driven from my lungs when something large and heavy fell, writhing, on top of me.

It was the rebel that had nearly cut one of my legs off. A boot roughly kicked him off me. "Still alive, pris…" Hadvar started before trailing off. "All right there, Sedgwick?"

I grunted, not trusting myself to speak, and rolled onto my back. I winced at a sharp pain in my chest; either my rough fall or the weight of the Stormcloak had cracked a rib. "Pouch on my belt," I said through gritted teeth.

Through the haze of pain, I could see Hadvar's face show comprehension. One rummage later, he was tipping the contents of the red vial that I had found into my mouth. It tasted of sour wine mixed with vinegar, but I could immediately feel the reassuring burning sensation that told me that the gash in my leg was beginning to mend.

Assisted by Hadvar, I got to my feet and winced. Disappointingly, the pain in my side had only just subsided into a dull ache. "_This_ is Legion medicine?" I asked derisively, despite myself.

The soldier barked a sharp, humorless laugh. "Legion medicine ran out in this province when the last open pass out of the province filled up with bandits," he said, turning his head to spit. He gave me a pat on the back that nearly sent me tumbling again. "Now we mix what we can from leftover wheat and bits of insects."

The assistant looked like he had had enough. "I'd better stay back and see to the old man," he said, and for a moment a ghost of a scowl appeared on his features. He nodded to me and to Hadvar. "Good luck to you."

And with that, he was gone. "I didn't know that the Legion employed torturers," I said when he was out of earshot, not quite managing to keep the disapproval out of my voice.

Hadvar looked away, his expression one of someone suddenly focused on other matters. "We don't," he said shortly.

"Then why is…"

"Leave it for now." The soldier gestured to the exit, which looked distinctly more cavernous than the entrance. "We still need to get out of here."

The keep, I discovered, had been built on top of a cave that was thoroughly infested with giant spiders. The arachnids were unpleasant, but simple compared to the soldiers that we had just killed. Still, I doubted that bloodthirsty insects under one's base was conducive to a defensive strategy, and said as much to Hadvar after prying the fifth impaled spider off of my sword.

He just grunted. "Better Frostbite Spiders than Draugrs," he said simply.

"Draugrs?" I asked, curiosity overtaking me. "What are they, then?"

Hadvar looked at me as if I had just sprouted an extra head. "You know," he said, using the slow, clear tone of voice one would use when trying to communicate to the hard of thinking. "Draugrs. Ancient, vengeful warriors reanimated from death?" he added when my questioning gaze failed to wane.

"D'you mean Zombies?" I asked after trodding heavily on the last spider, smaller than the rest. I thought of the shambling corpses that tended to crop up in caves in Cyrodiil or whenever necromancers got tetchy.

"No," Hadvar said patiently. "I mean Draugrs."

We continued through the twisting cave in thoughtful silence. Then: "What's the difference?" I asked.

The sigh Hadvar heaved carried quite a bit of weariness with it. "I should think that you'd have to see for yourself."

"Why's that, then?" I pressed, my curiosity getting the better of me. "What, are your province's zombies different from my provinces zombies because of, of…" I mentally groped for an acceptably derisive metaphor and settled for, "a uniquely unexplainable hat that they all wear?"

"Stop calling them zombies," Hadvar said. "They aren't zombies." By now our pointless little debate had become an equally pointless argument.

"Oh, so they're not dead people that happen to be upright and trying to kill living people then?"

"Hold up."

"I mean, usually that's the qualifying characteristic of zombies, yes? Otherwise, it'd defeat the point of the whole…"

"Hold up, I said." I nearly walked into the soldier's outstretched arm and only just caught the insistent tone in his voice. "There's a bear just ahead. See her?"

And then I did see her. What I had taken for a rocky lump in a cavern full of rocky lumps was a huge animal, lazily reclining on the stone floor and in the warmth of sunlight that was streaming in from a large hole in the ceiling.

Hadvar kept talking, his voice now in a low whisper. "I'd rather not tangle with her just now," he said, and I silently agreed. "We might be able to sneak by. Just take it nice and slow, and watch where you step." The soldier, struck with inspiration, then grabbed something off of the ground and passed it to me. It was a longbow. "Or," he said, "If you're feeling lucky, you can take this bow. Might take her by surprise." He then proceeded to offer a couple of arrows from his quiver.

I grimaced. "We didn't escape a dragon just to get mauled by a bear because we couldn't bother with sneaking past," I hissed back at him. "No one's that lucky."

Hadvar appeared to agree, because he started to silently creep forward. I followed suit, my eyes resting warily on the hopefully slumbering animal. We slunk over the clammy stones, careful not to tread on any loose stones or puddles that might make enough noise to wake the beast. As it was, my own breath treacherously roared in my ears, and I was sure that the noise of my heart pounding in my chest could have been heard even by the dragon, doubtlessly still ravaging Helgen far behind us.

After far too long a time of creeping along the floor of the cave, Hadvar sighed in relief and exhaustion. "That was close," he breathed.

I was about to respond in kind when I caught sight of a light ahead of us. The soldier must have noticed my expression, because he turned away from me. He grinned beatifically. "That looks like the way out!" he exulted before starting forward, excitement putting a spring in his step.

"You know," I said as we approached the light at the end of the tunnel, "I was starting to get a bit worried back there."

Hadvar laughed. "You just about pissed yourself four times over," he teased, giving me another hearty slap on the back that threatened to realign my spine.

A wave of fresh, cool air nearly toppled us both as we clambered out of the dark cave and into the afternoon light. It must have been the opposite side of mountain from Helgen, as the town was nowhere to be seen. Upon reflection, that was likely a good thing. I laughed out loud, drunk with relief, not caring about my aching ribs or creaking knees. Hadvar joined in my merriment, almost falling over in his joy.

Then he elbowed me in the ribs.

My breath caught in my throat, and I saw stars. Hunching over, I began to give him a sharp retort when I noticed that his attention was focused elsewhere, on a point somewhere behind and above me.

To the west, lazily circling the peak of one of the Jerall Mountains, was a dragon. The dragon. It must have finished putting the town of Helgen to fire, and now it was just flying as if it hadn't a care in the world. I remembered it speaking in that awful voice, and my blood ran cold. It wasn't some stupid animal. It was sentient, or at least smart enough to talk. I wandered how many people it had slaughtered.

"Bastard," I mumbled, and Hadvar gave me an odd look. In the blink of an eye, the dragon was gone.

"Looks like he's gone for good this time," Hadvar finally said.

"Let's not hang about to see if he comes back," I rejoined.

Even so, we both just stood there for a while longer, staring at the mountain where the beast had just been flying. Then: "Are you a renegade?"

I blinked and looked at Hadvar. "What?" I said dumbly.

"Are you a renegade?" the soldier asked again, eyes narrowed warily. I noticed that his hand was hovering just over the hilt of his sword.

I remembered what that Legion captain had called me. The Renegade from Cyrodiil, she had said. "No," I said, "I'm not." After a second's pause to think, I added, "I'm a trader from Cyrodiil."

Hadvar's face went from suspicion to puzzlement. "At this time of year? Tell me that you didn't come up the Pale Pass."

I nodded. "Of course. How else would I get here?"

Hadvar was giving me that look again. It was the same look he had given me when I had asked him about Draugrs. "Then either you brought a small army or you're the luckiest bastard that I've laid eyes on." Pause. "And the stupidest."

"Haven't we gone over this?" I asked wearily. We were now walking down the mountain path, and I was just remembering that it had been two days since I had last slept properly or eaten.

"Yes," Hadvar admitted, "But we didn't quite have the time to plumb the depths of your stupidity, then." He shook his head. "Out with it, then. How many men did you bring, Mister Trader?"

I grunted. My ears were going red, and not from the chill.

"What was that?"

I sighed. "Two," I said, hating my hindsight. "Two guards to get me as far as the first settlement."

Hadvar laughed, this time with genuine amusement. It was a shame that it was at my expense. "You're a damn fool, Sedgwick, you know that?" he said. "This time of year, the Pale Pass is so thick with bandits that I hear tell they're having to pay rent."

"Where in Tamriel are we going, then?" I asked hotly, changing the subject. I thought about explaining the Understanding to Hadvar, but I suspected that he would only laugh at me some more.

"Riverwood. It's the closest town from here, and my uncle's the blacksmith." The smug bastard was still grinning. "I'm sure he'll help you out."

I paused, not sure what to say to that. I had expected us to part ways as soon as we got out of the cave, but it looked as if he was happy to introduce an escaped convict to his family. Granted, there were mitigating circumstances, coming in the form of a massive, furious reptile. I settled for "Thank you."

As we wended our way downward, we approached a collection of large stones that sat on a stone platform overlooking a lake. Hadvar stopped, and indicated that I should do the same. "These are the Guardian Stones," he told me, "three of the thirteen ancient standing stones that dot Skyrim's landscape." He gestured encouragingly. "Go ahead. See for yourself."

I gingerly stepped onto the rocky dias, slightly intimidated by the ancient stones. Massive tree roots protruded from the rock, making the entire platform a tangled mess, but curiously did not touch the stones. The three Guardian Stones themselves were breathtaking; each stone was conical in shape, with a metal ring near the top encircling a hole that bored through the center. On each stone was also a stylized carving of, respectively, a robed man with a staff, a cowled man with a knife, and an armored man with a battle axe. Though they had to be thousands of years old, the images were as clear as they had been when they were freshly carved. I suspected that even a dragon wouldn't be able to accomplish so much as chipping one. Without really thinking about it, I rested a hand on the stone with the armored carving, feeling the ancient metal ring under my fingertips.

As I did so, the bore of the previously inert stone glowed and sparkled with energy that radiated outward, filling the ancient lines of the uppermost portion of the rock. The carved man below was screened by a series of glowing points and lines that I instantly recognized as the constellation of one of the Birthsigns.

The stone wasn't done. Once the old carvings were illuminated, a great shaft of light erupted from the top of the stone and shot skywards, piercing the heavens. I staggered backward, nearly falling off the dais.

Hadvar, amazingly, wasn't nearly as surprised as I was. In fact, he chuckled. "Warrior," he said, referring to the Birthstone constellation on the stone. "Good." He gave me another spine-shattering backslap. "I knew you shouldn't have been on that cart the minute I laid eyes on you." And with that, he turned and started walking down the path again, as if nothing had happened. It took me a full minute to get over the shock of the stone enough to run after him.

Before I could so much as mention the glowing stone, Hadvar changed the subject. "See that ruin up there?" he said, gesturing to the mountain across the river.

I looked. An ugly stone edifice protruded from the slope of the mountain. Great stone arches and tendrils heralded a great, black building of some sort. "What in Oblivion is _that_?" I asked, forgetting the stones entirely. The original architects of that place had apparently gone for menacing, and as far as I was concerned, they had outdone themselves.

"Bleak Falls Barrow," Hadvar said. "When I was a boy, that place always gave me nightmares."

I couldn't tear my eyes away from the ugly ruin. As a burial ground, the architecture alone seemed to be a good anti-theft measure. "Nightmares?" I asked. "Can't imagine why."

The soldier chuckled. "Draugr coming down the mountain to climb through my mountain at night, that sort of thing." He cast a dark look at it. "I admit it, I still don't much like the look of it."

We proceeded in silence, now following a river that cut through the landscape. I fancied that I could see wolves through the underbrush on our opposite side, but if they were there, then they weren't desperate enough to attack humans at the moment.

After an hour's walk, I broke the silence. "Well, Mister Soldier," I said, imitating his earlier jab, "What does my, ah, legal position look like at the moment?"

Hadvar grunted. "As far as _I'm_ concerned, you've already earned your pardon."

"I'm sensing a 'but' somewhere in there," I said as we passed a small waterfall. Fish that I assumed to be salmon were leaping upstream.

"But," the soldier pressed on, "until we get that confirmed by General Tullius, just stay clear of other Imperial soldiers and avoid any complications, all right?"

Memory supplied the face of a man with a permanent scowl. I didn't look forward to meeting with this general in the near future.

An hour later, we arrived in a pleasant little town on the side of, yes, a river. The scenery was largely dominated by a lumber mill that, even as we passed, had several people hard at work on the arduous process of turning fallen trees into usable wood. Just a short distance down the road from the mill was the smithy of the town, set outdoors and in the lee of a cottage.

As we passed through the gate into the sleepy little town itself, my companion exhaled. "Things look quiet enough here," Hadvar said, relief evident in his voice. "Come on. There's my uncle."

The uncle in question, sitting on a stout chair in the smithy, was a mountain of a man. Hair tumbled down his head in a manner similar to Hadvar's, but was tied up so as to avoid catching fire during the course of his work. Even though he wore a thick wool shirt and an apron besides, the muscles on his arms and chest rippled underneath. His face was permanently streaked with soot, which was better than a nameplate for identifying anyone that worked a forge or furnace.

The man's face, which looked as if it had been carved from teak, screwed up in confusion as we approached. "Hadvar?" he said, his voice gravelly from the smoke of the forge. "What are you doing here? Are you on leave from…" He trailed off as he got a better look at us.

I could hardly blame him. Hadvar looked as if someone had shoved him inside a blast furnace and tossed him into a mudpit afterwards. His hair was singed from the hail of embers at Helgen, his armor dented from the blows of Stormcloaks and stained with the entrails of spiders, his hands calloused and bleeding from the sheer number of times that he had used his weapon. I must have looked even worse; after all, I had been lying face-down in the dirt twice in the last two days, pummeled twice in the back of the head, nearly incinerated by dragonfire so close that I could reach out and touch it, and stabbed in the leg. I reflected again on the fact that I hadn't so much as had some water since the morning yesterday.

"Shor's bones," the man breathed. "What _happened_ to you, boy?"

Hadvar shushed his uncle. "Uncle, please, keep your voice down, I'm fine." He looked sideways at the busy townspeople in such a way that would have immediately made him look suspicious to anyone that had been paying any attention. "We should go inside to talk," he said in a stage whisper that communicated the fact that he was whispering without in any way lowering the volume of what was being whispered. I suspected that Hadvar had not been among the party that had ambushed the Stormcloaks.

The blacksmith's anxiety lessened only slightly. "What's going on? And who's _this_?" he said, gesturing to me. From the look on his face, it was evident that he would have more than strong words for me if I was responsible for what had caused his nephew's ruffled appearance.

"He's a friend," Hadvar quickly said before I could volunteer anything. "Saved my life, in fact. Come on, I'll explain everything, but we need to go inside."

The blacksmith shot another look at me, this one with a hint of gratitude, or at least higher esteem. "Okay, okay," he said, giving up on any immediate answers. "Come inside, then. Sigrid will get you something to eat and you can tell me all about it."

My mouth watered at the prospect of something, anything to eat. As we turned to enter the cottage, though, I heard a frightened voice behind us.

"A dragon! "I saw a dragon!"

I forced myself not to turn and look at what sounded like an old woman.

"What? What is it now, mother?"

As the distraught old woman described the great, black beast to her unbelieving son, I followed Alvor and his uncle into the warm cottage.


	4. Chapter 4 - Rumors of Dragons

It is difficult for me to succinctly describe the interior of the blacksmith's home as anything other than Nordic. Everything from the rough-hewn furniture to the thick, planked floor and walls bespoke a certain kind of rugged heaviness that was absent in even the meanest of shacks that can be found in Cyrodiil. The fireplace was no less imposing; it was composed of massive, uneven blocks of stone held together by some sort of truly heroic adhesive, and in all, the fireplace somehow contrived to appear monolithic even in its simplicity. Those furniture pieces in the home that could not be made of wood or stone were instead composed of animal skin. Hides appeared to be very much in style for the modern Skyrim home, as they were everywhere; they served as rugs, as wall coverings, even as bedspreads.

At first, I had thought that these (and here I must once again use the word) Nordic furnishings were born of poverty; as it happened, I could not have been much further from the truth.

Luxuries as I understood them, such as rich food, opulent furniture, and an easy life, were of only passing interest to the average inhabitant of Skyrim, as I eventually came to learn. Luxury as it was understood in Skyrim was quite different. Nords didn't care much for soft fabrics; instead, they preferred warm skins of the animal persuasion. Nords turned their noses up at rich food, instead, they opted for heavy food that stuck in the ribs and kept one warm. Nords didn't have much use for opulent furniture; they desired furniture that could survive a strong blow from a heavy weapon or, in a pinch, being used as a heavy weapon to strike a strong blow.

Nords didn't care for leisure; instead, they sought glory.

We were seated around the simple yet sturdy table that dominated the small home. The blacksmith that introduced himself as Alvor was seated across from me, his face grim. Sigrid, a crimson-haired woman with dainty hands (I later learned that she disliked this trait) placed a bowl full of a thick stew in front of me. I breathed my thanks and tucked in. I normally dislike venison, but you couldn't have gotten me away from that food with another dragon attack, that day.

My chair was, like the rest of the wooden furniture, roughly hewn from wood, despite the lumber mill not fifty paces from the blacksmith's home. Nevertheless, it felt as if I was sitting in the finest of cushions. Over the course of the last two days, I had undergone more forms of physical and mental trauma than I had earlier been able to imagine, let alone experience, and my body was still reeling from the catastrophe. Somehow, even my hair contrived to ache.

"Now, then, boy," Alvor said around a mouthful of potato. "What's the big mystery?" He swallowed mightily and spoke more clearly. "What are you doing here, looking like you just lost an argument with a cave bear?"

Hadvar, who looked as if he was processing his thoughts with as much difficulty as he was processing the large chunk of venison he was chewing, spoke. "I don't know where to start," he admitted, sounding more shaken than I had ever heard him, even in the face of death by cremation. "You know that I was assigned to General Tullius's Guard. We were stopped in Helgen when we were attacked...by a dragon."

Alvor and Sigrid furrowed their brows in matching expressions of disbelief. "A dragon?" Alvor asked. "That's…ridiculous. You aren't drunk, are you boy?"

Sigrid didn't look as if she believed Hadvar any more than Alvor did, but she said, "Husband. Let him tell his story."

Hadvar shook his head. "Not much more to tell. This dragon flew over and just wrecked the whole place. Mass confusion."

I nodded. "It just burned and destroyed everything," I helpfully supplied. I shuddered as images entered my mind's eye unbidden. "Every_one_."

Hadvar nodded as well. "I don't know if anyone else got out alive. I doubt 'd have made it out myself if not for Sedgwick, here."

If I had been swallowing something, I would have choked on it.

"I need to get back to Solitude and let them know what's happened," Hadvar added. If he had noticed my surprise, he didn't show it. "I thought you could help us out. Food, supplies, a place to stay."

Alvor looked at me appraisingly, and I could almost see his opinion of me improving even further. "Of course!" he said. "Any friend of Hadvar's is a friend of mine. I'm glad to help however I can."

We finished the meal in silence. Though both Alvor and Sigrid had expressed nothing but relief at Hadvar's safety, everyone's faces were grim, and I couldn't blame them. No amount of silver linings could do much to improve a cloud that entailed the total destruction of an entire village.

Hadvar was playing with a girl, his younger cousin, when Alvor gave me a meaningful look and gestured to the door. I nodded my understanding, and we both wordlessly filed out of the house and into the late afternoon air.

To my surprise, Alvor clapped me on the shoulders, a gesture that turned out to be a common sign of solidarity in Skyrim. "Like I said, I'm glad to help in any way I can," he said, his jaw still set in that grim manner that I had seen all through the meal. "But I need your help." He glanced around, and I immediately learned that Hadvar's unique brand of appearing inconspicuous was not inherited from Alvor. The blacksmith was quite subtle, in his own way. "_We_ need your help," he said.

I was taken aback by the blacksmith's tone. His entreaty was so passionate that I had to stop short of automatically doing something heartless, like doing anything other than saying, "What do you need?"

Alvor turned his gaze to the north. "The Jarl needs to know if there's a dragon on the loose. Riverwood is defenseless," he said, and immediately my mind was again filled with the memories of corpses burning to ash, of the sound of screams, of the horrible voice the dragon had…

I realized that Alvor was still talking. "…word to Jarl Balgruuf in Whiterun to send whatever soldiers he can. If you'll do that for me, I'll be in your debt."

Immediately, he had his answer: "Where do I go?"

To my astonishment, it was me who had said it. I felt as if I couldn't so much as cross to the other side of the road, let alone trek through miles of unfamiliar wilderness to deliver a message. I quickly added, "I'll need a couple of supplies, too."

A short time later, I was crossing the river and heading north. Alvor had told me I'd be able to see Whiterun as I passed the falls. In either hand, I held a vial; the first was red, yet another potion of healing. This one was from Alvor's emergency crate, and considerably more potent than the watered-down slop that I had scavenged from Helgen. I wrinkled my nose as I tossed the bitter liquid down my throat, but almost gasped in relief as my fractured ribs began to knit and the numerous miscellaneous cuts, bruises and burns that I had gotten while scrambling through the burning village mended themselves before my eyes.

The second vial, a green one, was the Stamina potion that I had gotten from Helgen. It was undoubtedly as poorly mixed as the weak red potion that had barely closed the gash on my leg, but I didn't care; it's almost impossible to ruin a Stamina potion, and even the most amateurishly brewed ones would still grant a few hours of energy, at least.

Though there were mixtures that could make a giant invisible or a blind man capable of shooting a fly with a longbow at five hundred paces, I had always believed that Stamina potions were Alchemy's greatest gift to sapientkind. They weren't substitutes for sleep, and "running green" nonstop would kill you after a couple of days, but there was nothing better for quickly rejuvenating tired muscles and adding a few hours of alertness. I drank the thick green mixture gratefully; it tasted of chilled honey and pine needles. Immediately, I could feel color return to the world.

And so, for the first time since what felt like an eternity after the first time I was clubbed on the head in that pass, I had time to think to myself alone. Then, I had been travelling with a horseload of cheap goods to make a quick septim. Now, I was travelling alone to one of the largest cities in the province to tell its ruler that dragons existed, and that they were apparently angry.

"What in the name of Oblivion am I doing?" I asked aloud.

As if in response, a low growling emanated from the nearby underbrush.

"Oh, shit," I mumbled what seemed by now to be my battle cry as I drew my sword.

At that moment, two wolves exploded from the thicket as if shot by a crossbow. One leapt at me, fangs bared. I raised my weapon just in time for it to close its jaws onto a mouthful of iron. The animal yelped, turned, and fled, blood leaking from its mouth.

The other wolf bit down hard on my armored leg, its teeth sliding uselessly off of the hard leather. I kicked it away, but it just as quickly leapt again, its fangs now aimed for my throat. Without thinking, I lashed out and caught the animal in the chest with my free hand, holding it in place. With the wolf trapped, I raised my blade and stabbed it in the abdomen. It let out a mournful keen as blood poured from around my blade, and as I stepped back, withdrawing the weapon, it collapsed in a rapidly expanding pool of its own blood.

I breathed heavily, staring at the animal corpse. I had always been an urban creature; though I travelled between cities frequently, I had always simply paid other people to fight off wild animals on my behalf. Even on those rare occasions when it was just me and a wild animal, I had always just run it off with a few swipes at its flank. That had always been enough for Cyrodiil wolves, which were in any case well fed from woodland game.

I had certainly never seen what a wolf's intestines looked like until today.

* * *

><p>Whiterun was a city built upon what the mountain-dwelling Nords would likely have called a "hill". From the overlook on which I now stood, I could see that the city was composed of three levels, with iconic Dragonsreach on the peak, standing proudly in the northernmost corner and visible from leagues in every direction. In its own way, it reminded me of the Imperial City.<p>

A couple of short hours later, as I approached the city's walls, I found something else that reminded me of the Empire's Capitol: the condition of the walls. Everywhere I looked, the walls of White run were in some measure of disrepair; some, such as on the old, outer wall, were merely beginning to crumble. Other areas were little more than piles of stone. Whereas the ancient walls of the Imperial City were almost irreparably damaged by the ruinous Great War some decades ago, however, these walls simply appeared to be old. Little by little, the walls had fallen and no one had done enough to maintain them.

Happily, such was not the case with the inner wall that protected the city proper. Here and there, I could see fresh rock and mortar among the old fortification. I approached the gate into the city, flanked by two surly looking men wearing ornate helmets and what appeared to be a version of the Stormcloak armor that bore yellow cloth instead of blue. I blinked as I realized that the Stormcloaks must have modelled their armor after those of local guards.

"Clever little sods," is what I would have said if the two guards hadn't been glowering at me at that very moment. There wasn't any particular reason for their surly expressions. They were simply there to communicate that they, the glowerers, were guards, that I, the gloweree, was nobody, and that the gloweree had better not make any trouble for the glowerers or there would damn well be a good deal more than glowering going on.

By now, the sky was dark, the moons and stars obscured by thick clouds. One of the guards stepped forward. "Halt," he said in an authoritative voice. "City's closed with the dragons about. Official business only."

Several thoughts ran through my potion-fueled brain at once. The first, carrying a touch of alarm, was, "Dragons, plural?" The second, not very far behind, was, "What am I going to do now?" The third, which had been not far from my mind since I took that first lump on the head, was, "Well, I tried. Where's the next boat to Cyrodiil?"

The fourth thought waited until all of the others had finished clamoring before whispering: "I can _use_ this."

It was the type of thinking that had helped me to survive every failed deal, every bungled scheme, and every bad sale. It was the thoughts that I never bothered to think until it was just shy of too late, and not quite scraping the bottom of the barrel. It was the voice that I never heard until I was in deep, but it always kept me from drowning. It was the sound that Opportunity makes when, once every other road seems to lead straight to prison or the poorhouse, it knocks on the door of my consciousness.

In hindsight, of course, it may have just been the buzz of the Stamina potion.

I didn't stop to think why I had heard it now. I just listened.

"I was at Helgen when it was attacked by a dragon. I have information," I said, hoping upon hope that I could talk my way into the city.

The guards looked at each other uncertainly. Thinking was not a common talent among guards, and these were certainly common guards. They had been told to shut the gates and make sure that no one gets in or out unless they were on official business. It was the type of order that doesn't invite a good deal of imagination; they were on official business, or they weren't. This had suited them just fine, as imagination didn't come to them easily; after all, if it did, then they wouldn't have been guards.

On the other hand, the word _dragon_ tended to inspire quite a bit of inspiration, usually of the burning and dying variety.

"Fine," said the guard that was apparently the designated speaker. "But we'll be keeping an eye on you."

I stopped myself just in time from heaving a sigh of relief. Instead, I nodded my thanks and walked into the city of Whiterun.

On the other side of the wall, the first thing that I noticed was a couple of people in what appeared to be a heated discussion about armaments.

"…Whatever it takes," the man was saying, "but we must have more swords for the Imperial soldiers." He was almost as sturdy as Alvor, and he wore what appeared to be a lighter version of the Imperial Legion Armor. I stopped, transfixed, before I forced myself to relax; I probably didn't have anything to fear this soon, especially I didn't have an entry in the prison registry.

The woman was of a swarthy skin that I immediately identified as Imperial. Somehow, seeing an Imperial in Skyrim only compounded my sense of separation from my homeland. She shook her head. "I just can't fill an order of that size on my own. Why don't you swallow that stubborn pride of yours and ask Eorlund Gray-Mane for help?

The man laughed scornfully, his voice more a bark than an expression of humor. "I'd sooner bend my knee to Ulfric Stormcloak." He spat on the ground at the mention of the name. "Besides, Gray-Mane would never make steel for the Legion."

The woman, leaning against the wall of a building that bore a Blacksmith's shingle, sighed in apparent resignation. "Have it your way. I'll take the job, but don't expect a miracle."

The blacksmith walked into the smithy. The soldier turned and saw me standing there. Immediately he gave me his full attention and barked a question. "Gray-Mane or Battle-Born?"

I blinked, caught off guard by both the suddenness and the intensity of the question. "What?" I said dumbly.

This answer didn't appear to satisfy the soldier, because he narrowed his eyes and deepened his scowl. "Got stones in your ears?" he said derisively. "I asked what side you're on, Gray-Mane or Battle-Born!"

I opened my mouth and shut it a few times before regaining enough presence of mind to say, "I heard you. I just don't know what you're asking."

The man relaxed a little bit, and stopped trying to set my hair on fire with his eyes. "New in town, huh?" he said in a considerably more amiable tone. He gestured at the buildings around him. It was beginning to rain. "Whiterun's got two clans, both old and respected.

"Difference is, the Gray-Manes," and here he spat again, "turned their backs on the Empire. We Battle-Borns stayed loyal." His gaze hardened. "So I'll ask again. Gray-Mane or Battle-Born?"

It didn't take an Arch-Mage to figure out the right answer to that question. "Oh, Battle-Born, of course," I said, as if the answer was obvious to anyone with a brain (as opposed to being obvious to anyone with a desire to stay upright and unbruised).

Amazingly, the resulting smile from the man was genuine. "Then I say well met, friend." He then proceeded to clap me on the shoulders. "I could tell you were a sharp one the moment I laid eyes on you," he said without even a hint of irony. "Idolaf Battle-Born."

I could have guessed the surname. "Sedgwick Circospetto."

Judging from the brief look on his face, I suspected that Idolaf would be sticking to my given name. "What brings you to Whiterun, Sedgwick?"

I frowned as I remembered the mild urgency of my mission. "I need to carry a message to the…" I forgot the title. I cringed.

Idolaf noticed my problem. "To the Jarl?" He supplied helpfully.

This time I freely sighed in relief. "Yes."

Idolaf nodded. "Jarl Balgruuf is the leader of the city and of Whiterun Hold," he patiently explained. He pointed up, to the great building that overlooked the city. "You'll find him in Dragonsreach."

Mercifully, I knew enough to understand that a Hold was a sort of province-within-a-province. "Thank you," I told him before rushing off.

It was raining heavily as I climbed the numerous steps up the city and to the city's seat of power. After a cold and wet eternity, I could see great, wooden doors through the damp dark.

I was winded from the steps, but even so, the sight of the interior of the Jarl's great hall took my breath away. If Alvor's cottage was Nordic architecture at its most utilitarian, Dragonsreach was the same with its hair washed and its clothes pressed. Chandeliers laden with candles hung from the great, arched ceiling, but even their glow was outshined by the many torches and iron firepits that lined the hall, bathing everything in a golden glow. From the walls and balconies hung great banners of yellow and gold, each adorned with the Horse's Head of Whiterun Hold.

The center of the hall was dominated by two enormous tables, each capable of holding a feast fit for a small army, their every edge finely carved yet still bearing the hard-edged machismo inherent in all Nordic craftsmanship. Men and women sat here, filling the hall with the sounds of eating, of carousing and of rugged merriment. Between the tables sat a great firepit, constantly fed by massive chunks of wood and bearing an inferno that warmed every corner of the room.

At the back of the hall, displayed for all to see, was the great skeletal head of a dragon, its bleached skull snarling at eternity, its very presence boasting to the world that the name of the great building was well-deserved.

Under this dragon's head, on the throne of Dragonsreach, sat Jarl Balgruuf the Greater, clothed in fine, sleeveless robes adorned with feathers, with fur and with gold. On his head sat a gleaming golden circlet, embedded in which was a shining ruby. On Balgruuf's right hand stood a bald Imperial with sharp eyes and a sharper frown; on his left stood a Dark Elf on whose gray face was a scowl to rival that of General Tullius.

I stood at the door, struck dumb by the sheer splendor of a hall that would try the most cunning of Cyrodiilic architects, until I remembered my purpose. I needed to speak to the Jarl.

As I stepped forward, however, the Dark Elf somehow contrived to scowl even further and moved to intercept me. To my mild alarm, she drew her sword.

"What is the meaning of this interruption?" she asked me before I could get more than a few steps into the hall. "Jarl Balgruuf is not receiving visitors."

The tone of the Dunmer's voice communicated in clear terms that there was no possibility of refusing it. It was the same Voice of Command that Ulfric Stormcloak had used in the attack on Helgen. In this case, she provided additional motivation as supplied the sword that she was carrying in a not-entirely-unthreatening way. I had to mentally fight with my knees to keep them from turning me around and marching me right out of Dragonsreach.

I stuck with the story I had given the guards. It was true, after all, as I told my noncompliant knees. "I have news from Helgen," I said, looking pointedly at the sword. "About the dragon attack." It was a big sword.

To my surprise and relief, the Dunmer immediately sheathed her sword. "Well, that explains why the guards let you in," she said, her voice only just betraying her surprise. She gestured toward the high seat. "Come on, then. The Jarl will want to speak to you personally."

As it happened, my arrival was, indeed, an interruption of some kind; The Jarl was deep in a heated discussion with the Imperial when I approached. He turned to look at me with a glare that could have melted steel. "What in Oblivion's name does Tullius want _this_ time?"

I blinked, dumbstruck. "What?" I said dumbly.

The answer only appeared to irritate the Jarl further, because he barked, "Out with it, man! What does the Legion want from Whiterun? They _do_ want something, yes?"

We stared at one another for what must have been some time, his expression growing more frustrated by the second and mine undoubtedly growing more befuddled. Too late, I realized that I was still wearing the Legion uniform that I had scavenged from the keep at Helgen.

As I started to babble a string of disconnected sentences which, if interpreted by someone with a transcript and a good deal of free time might have been translated to something roughly along the lines of my not being a soldier, the Dark Elf leaned toward him and murmured something into his ear. The Jarl immediately straightened in his seat and looked me in the eye.

"So," he said, his voice losing the edge that it had held. "You were at Helgen? You saw the dragon with your own eyes?"

A hush fell over the hall. I felt the eyes of Dragonsreach on me. I exhaled, slowly. "Yes," I said. "I saw the dragon destroy Helgen."

And then the story, unbidden, poured from my lips and into the ears of the hall. I recounted the terrified screams, the burning people, the crumbling buildings, the hail of fire, the terrible beast. I spoke of the fire that barely missed me only to incinerate hundreds, of the heavens themselves writhing at the sound of the creature's voice, and, finally, of the leisure with which it erased Helgen from the world.

I stopped, clenching my teeth. I felt sick, and judging by the expressions of the faces that I could see, I was not alone. "When I last saw it, the bastard was in flying in the mountains near Riverwood," I finished weakly.

A pregnant silence ruled the hall after my speech.

"By Ysmir," the Jarl finally breathed. "Irleth was right." The Dark Elf's frown deepened at the sound of her name, and it was clear that being right did not comfort her much at the moment. Balgruuf turned his steely gaze onto the Imperial. "What do you say now, Proventus? Shall we continue to trust in the strength of our walls? Against a dragon?"

The Dunmer called Irleth and the Imperial called Proventus began to argue amongst themselves, both competing for the ear of the Jarl while at the same time glaring daggers at one another. Balgruuf slammed a fist on the arm of his chair, causing everyone to jump.

"I will not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people!" he bellowed in a voice that could have carried to the city gates. He took a deep breath before turning to the Dunmer. "Irleth. Send a detachment to Riverwood at once."

And so, my job was done. I exhaled, only just realizing that I had been holding my breath. Now that I had delivered the message, I could…

I could…

I felt the emptiness of the universe open up before me. I was broke and exhausted, hundreds of miles from home and with no means of transport. I was stuck in an alien land caught in a civil war and infested by at least one dragon. My cargo was in the middle of some bandit pit, my horse was probably in a different province with a different fur color and fake teeth, and my guards were either in a shallow grave or wolf dung. Oh, and I may or may not be wanted by the Empire on suspicion of treason.

"Well done."

I emerged from my reverie with a jolt. The Jarl was looking at me again, a strange look in his eye. Irleth and Proventius were missing; instead, a guard was at the Jarl's side, carrying a large bundle wrapped in fur. How long had I been standing there, staring at nothing?

"You sought me out, on your own initiative," Balgruuf told me, and I decided not to correct him. "You've done Whiterun a service, and I won't forget it." He gestured, and the guard stepped forward, holding out the bundle. I accepted it without thinking, and nearly fell over when the Nord let go. It had to weigh at least forty pounds. If the Jarl noticed my strain, he didn't show it. "Take this as a small token of my esteem."

The Jarl wasn't finished with me. "There is another thing you could do for me. Suitable for someone of your particular talents, perhaps," he said, and I again noticed the look in his eye. He stood up and indicated that I should follow him. "Come," he said as he started to walk. I nearly stumbled as I fell into step behind him. "Let's go find Farengar, my court wizard. He's been looking into a matter related to these dragons and…" He hesitated a beat before finishing, "rumors of dragons."

I followed the Jarl into a room adjacent to the Hall. My eyes were immediately drawn to the most striking feature, a mountain of parchment resting on at least two large tables.

Balgruuf addressed the pile. "Farengar, I think I've found someone who can help you with your dragon project. Go ahead and fill him in with all the details." And with that, he was gone, probably returning to his throne. I was left alone in the room.

To my surprise, a hooded face poked out from behind the parchment pile. A Nord with a drawn face and sallow skin looked from the parchment to me, and then to the parchment again. "So the Jarl thinks you can be of use to me?" he said in the voice of someone who has far too many things to do in far too short a time." I heard the sound of rustling parchment. "Oh, yes," he said, his mind apparently having disengaged from whatever he was working on for long enough to remember that he ought to be working on something else, probably at the same time. "He must be referring to my research into the dragons."

"You're researching dragons?" I asked as he left the table to see to what turned out to be a second mountain of parchment. There were three in all; one, the largest, on the two tables, one piled around a large map of Skyrim, and one on and around what looked to be an alchemist's set.

The robed man called Farengar didn't answer until he finished finding something in the map's mountain. When he did, he appeared to ignore or forget my question, instead launching into what he had originally planned to say. "Yes, I could use someone to fetch someone for me," he said before plucking a stray quill from the pile, dipping it into one of the many inkwells scattered about, and scribbling something down.

Farengar stopped and looked up, glancing at me for a full three seconds. "Well, when I say 'fetch,'" he said, uncertainty clouding his features, "I really mean 'delve into a dangerous ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there.'"

I wasn't liking Farengar very much at the moment. "A dangerous ruin?" I echoed as he began to rummage through the Alchemy mountain. No response. I tried again. "What sort of dangers are we discussing?" Still no response. I sighed, fatigued. I could feel the buzz of the stamina potion leaving me, leaving an aching weariness behind. "What does this have to do with dragons?" I said, not bothering anymore to keep the befuddlement and irritation from my voice.

For the first time, the little man stopped what he was doing and gave me his full attention. "Ah, no brute mercenary, but a thinker," he said, appreciation creeping into his voice. "Perhaps even a scholar?" he asked, hope in his eyes.

I coughed, unnerved by the wizard's gaze. "Not in the things that you'd be interested in," I said with total honesty.

It was too late; Farengar was already in the throes of academic interest. "You see," he said, his eyes fixated on a point somewhere in front of him, "when the stories of dragons began to circulate, many dismissed them as mere fantasies. Rumors. Impossibilities!" The wizard barked a humorless laugh. "One sure mark of a fool, of course, is to dismiss anything that falls outside his experience as being impossible!"

"Of course," I said weakly, staring in horrified fascination.

Farengar didn't acknowledge me; he was only listening to an internal script now. "But I began to search, yes, search for information about dragons." He began to pace about in an agitated manner. "Where had they gone all those years ago? And where were they coming from?"

He stopped, right in front of me, and leaned forward, now whispering in a maniacally conspiratorial voice. "I, ah, _learned_ of a certain stone tablet," he said, as if he was divulging the most precious of secrets. "A Dragonstone, said to contain a map of dragon burial sites, and said to be housed in Bleak Falls Barrow."

The man stopped, straightened, breathed deeply. He wrung his hands, and his face once again took on its preoccupied look. "Go to Bleak Falls Barrow, find this tablet, no doubt interred in the main chamber, and bring it to me." He shrugged. "Simplicity itself."

I sighed, remembering Hadvar's description of the wretched tomb that overlooked Riverwood. "Just tell me one thing," I said, swaying slightly. "Would there happen to be Draugrs in this ruin?"

Farengar looked at me as if I had sprouted an extra head.


End file.
